Post. Shall's haue a play of this?
Thou scornfull Page, there lye thy part
Pis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe,
Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus,
You ne're kill'd Imogen till now: helpe, helpe,
Mine honour'd Lady
Cym. Does the world go round?
Posth. How comes these staggers on mee?
Pisa. Wake my Mistris
Cym. If this be so, the Gods do meane to strike me
To death, with mortall ioy
Pisa. How fares my Mistris?
Imo. Oh get thee from my sight,
Thou gau'st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence,
Breath not where Princes are